


To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

by fantom_ftnoise



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (excessive f-bombs), Ambiguous/Open Ending, Borgin and Burkes, Brief Discussion of Killing, Gen, Horcrux Hunting, Horcruxes, M/M, Mild Language, Pre-Slash, Slytherin's Locket, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, brief mention of child neglect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-07 10:25:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16406651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantom_ftnoise/pseuds/fantom_ftnoise
Summary: “To die, to sleep – to sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there's the rub, for in this sleep of death what dreams may come…”When he sleeps, he dreams. And when he dreams, he is transported. Tom Riddle worked for Borgin and Burkes, Harry remembers, when he stole the locket which he later turned into a horcrux...the very horcrux Harry fell asleep clutching.





	To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Earth_Phoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Earth_Phoenix/gifts).



> My lovely giftee asked to see a horcrux version of Tom that isn't the diary, so I hope you like Locket!Tom. This was fun to write and I think I might revisit this idea one day... Enjoy!

**“To die, to sleep – to sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there's the rub, for in this sleep of death what dreams may come…”**

 

When he sleeps, he dreams. And when he dreams, he is transported. Away from their tent, away from the Forest of Dean, away from Hermione and the prophecy and the war. An enormous weight is lifted from his shoulders so that he feels as if he might float if he pulls too much air into his lungs. It is all too real to be called surreal, and Harry leaves so much behind every night that he can't even call himself Harry Potter.

 

“Evans!” Mr. Burke barks. He is a thin, austere man with snow white hair; he rather reminds Harry of Scrooge. “Late _again!_ I need the old inventory restocked upstairs, and I need it done yesterday.”

 

Harry mumbles his apologies, heading right for the stairs.

 

He isn’t sure whose life this is or if his presence will have any lasting effect in this world. He still has his face, his scars, his memories. The first few nights (always daytime while he's here) he experimented with doing unpredictable things, expecting a dream to simply go with the madness, logic be damned. But when he nearly lost his job after conjuring a hundred chickens into the front room of Borgin & Burkes, he decided to ease off the experiments. Whoever this Evans character is - whether he is a real person whose name Harry somehow knew or if he is truly an invention of Harry’s imagination - it's probably safer to wait out these unexplained dreams with a quiet job in a shop.

 

Harry heaves a tiny, impossibly heavy box onto a counter near the back of the top floor. The thud of the apple-sized box masks the creak of the stairs. Ducking down for the next artifact - lingering in his bent-in-half position to stretch out his aching back - Harry peeks between his legs to find a pair of polished leather loafers just behind him. He jumps up and whirls around, hand dipping automatically to his wand.

 

“I’m Tom,” the young man says, dark eyes glittering. Harry drops his wand and it clatters to the floor. When he makes no move to retrieve it, the man takes a knee and swipes it neatly off the scratched wooden floor. Cradling it in both hands, he holds it up to Harry in a mockery of a proposal.

 

"Riddle," he croaks, dumbfounded. He's rooted to the spot, every instinct in him screaming to fight, to flee, to grab his wand and obliterate the young dark lord before -

 

"My reputation precedes me," Riddle croons. He's pleased.

 

Harry snatches his wand back, leveling it at Riddle's face. His exquisitely structured, insidiously smirking face. Riddle, unperturbed, remains on one knee. Harry yearns to strike, but he can't. The man is _kneeling_. He can't attack someone on their knees.

 

"Get up," he orders, voice low and unwavering despite the blood roaring in his ears.

 

"As you command." Riddle rises in one smooth motion, standing much too close and seeming to tower over Harry, though they're nearly matched in height. "Burke said he'd hired a stockboy, but he said nothing of this..." His eyes flit across Harry's form - he's dressed in a plain, mid-century robe he has no memory of purchasing - and Harry fights the urge to fidget under his calculating gaze.

 

Tom Riddle worked for Borgin and Burkes, Harry remembers, when he killed Hepzibah Smith and stole the locket which he later turned into a horcrux...the very horcrux Harry fell asleep clutching, the gold chain biting against his neck. Has he already stolen the locket? Harry's gaze dips to Tom's neckline, but he sees no lump under his sleek dark robes. Just a slender, firm chest, breathing steadily. The sight seems incongruent. Any breath Lord Voldemort takes is used for pain, for evil. But this is a man only just out of boyhood, a few years older than Harry. Breathing.

 

Harry's breath slows to match Riddle's, and then he's looking steadily into those eyes again. They're just eyes - handsome, calculating, almost _warm_ compared to the mad red slits Harry knew. Just eyes…

 

"How d'you do..." Riddle trails off leadingly, and he blurts out -

 

"Harry."

 

Fuck.

 

"Harry." Riddle smiles, but it's gentle...not at all like he's caught him out and now plans to eviscerate Harry Evans and carry on with world domination. It's just a smile. Just eyes. Mr. Burke starts screeching downstairs and Riddle grimaces. "I'll be seeing you, Harry."

 

He disappears among the shelves, heading for the storage room. His heels click softly against the hardwood floor, and then the sound fades.

 

Harry jolts awake. The night is cold and freezing, the locket clutched in his white-knuckle grip. Hermione is sniffling in the dark. He pretends he doesn't hear.

 

* * *

 

He doesn't expect to actually meet Hepzibah Smith, but of course he does. She tries to whisper, but her stream of never-ending chatter rattles the windows...or maybe Harry's just paranoid. She shows him the locket, proud as can be, proclaiming for all the world - and Riddle - to hear how she came to have it.

 

"Maybe you shouldn't be carting that around," he mutters, eyes darting to the stairs. Riddle is up there, no doubt listening to every word. He's been nothing but cordial and smooth, quiet but maintaining control of every conversation. Well, their two brief conversations thus far.

 

"Oh, bless you, child, I know," she says, placing a soothing hand on his arm. Harry jerks it away as if she's got the plague, then feels awful for it. She's not dying...he can save her, actually, if he can just - "But I can't resist taking it for a worldly tour sometimes. You understand. I only - "

 

"Could I hold it?"

 

Smith rears back, her face shuttering. She tucks the locket into the folds of her robes, but the chain is still visible, easy to grab. He could stop all of this before it goes any further...

 

She's gone. The door shuts with a click behind her, and Harry watches his chance hustle away down the alley.

 

"I could get it for you." Warm breath fills the shell of his ear. He closes his eyes, but doesn't move away. He can't show weakness, can't let Riddle think he's got the upper hand just because he can sneak down the stairs without a sound.

 

"I don't know what you're talking ab - "

 

"The locket."

 

Harry turns without stepping away and Riddle is right there, towering over him with his measly two inches, and Harry wants to spit in his stupid perfect face.

 

"No." His voice is firm, not vibrating with the rage that tingles in the fingers grasping his wand. It's still in his pocket, but he could pull it out now and put an end to this. Riddle's not entirely mortal, not anymore, but he's not Lord Voldemort either.

 

Riddle stares into his eyes. Maybe he sees his resolve, maybe he sees Harry is not one to cross. Or maybe he doesn't see him at all, and that fills Harry with a strange yearning...

 

"You weren't at Hogwarts," Riddle intones. He's not whispering like Hepzibah Smith, but his words go no further than Harry's ears.

 

"I was."

 

"I never saw you."

 

"Maybe you weren't looking."

 

Riddle steps back, lips quirking, eyes bright. He's having fun. Fuck him. Fuck him, fuck Voldemort, fuck the locket, fuck this whole fucking mess.

 

"I was in Slytherin," Riddle offers.

 

"I know." He's obviously wheedling for information, but Harry won't give it to him.

 

"You were in Gryffindor." It isn't a question, so Harry doesn't answer. "A Muggleborn."

 

"Half-blood." _Fucking dammit all to hell!_ Harry rails at himself. It's one thing to watch Riddle manipulate others in memories from a dusty old pensieve, quite another to be manipulated. He wants to pull out, to wake up, but he can't. He hasn't figured that part out yet... _can_ he leave? Would he just vanish from Borgin and Burkes? Would Riddle be left alone, finally thrown off whatever game he's playing? Or would he even notice Harry was gone?

 

Why does Harry care?

 

"So am I."

 

Harry nods and Riddle doesn't seem surprised...he never is. Harry wonders if conjuring chickens now might surprise him. The look on his face would be worth getting sacked.

 

Riddle doesn't follow him upstairs, thank fuck for that. But Harry feels his presence all the same, lingering in the back of his mind. He tries to clear his mind, just in case. Some time between lugging a crate of vials out of the storeroom and stooping down to stock a lower shelf, he eases into wakefulness.

 

It's morning. His palm is sweaty against the locket. He pries his fingers away and rises to brush his teeth.

 

* * *

 

Harry can't get Hepzibah Smith's address from Mr. Burke. He doesn't have Riddle's wheedling ways, his chiseled face and charming smile. He doesn't get anything from Mr. Burke except cutting remarks and a dire threat to mind his own business while he _still_ _has a mind_. Harry shivers - Riddle overheard everything and did not look pleased.

 

"I'll get it for you, Harry," he assures, cornering him against the front window as he swaps out the display. "Tonight."

 

"I don't want you to do that," Harry says lightly without looking up from his task. The more he looks at Riddle, the more Riddle looks at him. But does he see?

 

"You do."

 

"No."

 

"But, you want it..." Riddle sounds uncertain now, for the first time. Harry looks up. Riddle's brows are knitted in a frown and he's staring at the door as if he could see through it, through all of Great Britain and straight into Hepzibah Smith's sitting room.

 

"What do you do when you're not working?" Harry asks suddenly. Riddle blinks, bemused.

 

"I read," he says with half a laugh.

 

"Read what?" Is there _A How to Guide for Murder and Pillage?_ It might be easier to just burn down Riddle's library.

 

"I'm nearly through Agatha Christie."

 

Harry gapes.

 

"The - the Muggle?" Riddle nods easily, brows raising as if he can't understand Harry's confusion. "Like, murder mysteries?" Riddle smiles in a self-deprecating way.

 

"I like the puzzles. The characters, and their motivations."

 

"What's your motivation?" Harry shoots back.

 

"Power." Harry rolls his eyes and Riddle glares down at his own shoes, apparently embarrassed. "Well, I _am_ a Slytherin..." he mumbles. He sounds so much like anyone else that Harry doubts for a moment that this is really happening. Perhaps he can't reach the locket in these dreams because they're just that - dreams.

 

"Power to do what?" he asks, turning to slump against the window ledge. The shop is dimly lit, as always, but Riddle's presence makes it brighter. His smooth voice and quick wit fills it with something more than dark artifacts and creaky old floorboards. Something brighter and more alive.

 

"The world needs a guiding hand."

 

"The world gets on just fine without anyone taking control."

 

"Fine isn't acceptable," Riddle returns. "It can be great."

 

"Maybe people just want to live their lives in peace."

 

"Not everyone is afforded such a luxury, Harry." His voice turns hard and his eyes glint like steel. Harry stares unblinkingly at the antique register on the counter. He doesn't want to risk glimpsing even a hint of red in those warm eyes.

 

"You had a shit childhood," Harry sighs. "That's awful, and it shouldn't have happened. But it did and all you can do is try to…” He fumbles at the worst moment, searching for the words.

 

"To make the world a better place?"

 

"To do good!" he hisses through clenched teeth. "Killing and twisting people's minds to do your bidding won't fix anything."

 

"What are you accusing me of, Harry?"

 

"It destroys you, you know," he says, whirling around to face Riddle. He's pleading now - when did he start pleading with Tom Riddle? "It tears you apart!"

 

"If eradicating failure tears me apart," Riddle growls, "that's a sacrifice I'm willing to make."

 

"For the world or for yourself?" sneers Harry.

 

"For you."

 

"What?" he balks.

 

"You had a shit childhood," Riddle mimics. "Let me take you beyond that."

 

"I don't - "

 

"I can see it."

 

Harry scrunches his face in utter disbelief of what he's hearing. The sheer _nerve_...! "You don't know the half of it."

 

"Tell me."

 

"Fuck off, Riddle," he snarls.

 

"Did they isolate you?" he presses, blocking his escape. Harry doesn't answer. "Did they lock you away and leave you to fester? Alone, sniveling, cold and shivering - "

 

"It was quite warm in the cupboard, actually," he retorts. He's not sure why he said it, but it's out there now. Riddle looks like he's won something and that won't do. "They thought they could stamp the magic out of me. Make the world a cleaner place for it."

 

Riddle's lip curls, but Harry plows on before he can take up arms against Agatha Christie.

 

"It didn't work," he insists. "It - it didn't do any good, not for me or for them. They're in hiding now - “

 

"Hiding from you?"

 

Harry ignores him. "Forcing your will on others just comes back to bite you in the arse." It's not a perfect argument, of course, but he likes to imagine sometimes how awkward that car ride was after Dudley shook his hand. That's the only bit of retribution Harry cares to get from the Dursleys. An awkward car ride, without him around to blame.

 

Riddle doesn't say anything. Harry pushes past him. He's not as immovable as he seemed a moment ago.

 

He doesn't even make it up the stairs before he wakes to the tent.

 

* * *

 

He's heard that it helps to sleep on a problem. To push it out of mind, drift off and trust the morning air to bring clarity to a situation. He's never known that to work...he always wakes to Oliver Wood's demands or the promise of dragons or imminent failure in Potions class.

 

He sleeps, and finds himself in Borgin and Burkes with a powerful surge of hope. He won yesterday. He broke through Riddle's smooth talking, got under his skin, stunned him to silence, and he may have changed something in that calculating brain of his. A seed of doubt, perhaps. He had to believe it wasn't too late to save this man's fractured soul. Harry went to sleep with dread in his heart but now he's breathing familiar air that's still untainted by the prophecy. All is not lost.

 

There's still time.

 

He breezes past a crotchety Mr. Burke, who's grumbling about late employees, and heads right for the upstairs storeroom. The door closes behind him and the candle overhead flickers, but keeps burning. Just like his hope…

 

Riddle reaches over his shoulder from behind, dangling the damned locket.

 

"We can fix it, Harry," he croons hypnotically. The candlelight glints off the silver edge and Harry feels sick.

 

"No..." he breathes. _There's still time_ , he rallies.

 

_"Yesss."_

 

Harry reaches out, but doesn't touch the locket. His hand lingers in the air.

 

"Let me help you, Tom," he urges. The man behind him is human, fractured but still within reach. He can stay here - he can wake and go back to sleep again and again and again until he can fix the man who's still just trying to find his place in the world. He can help him find his place, no matter how long it takes.

 

"Join me."

 

"Join _me,"_ Harry insists, heart full to bursting with hope. He's almost there. Tom's breath catches as he presses into Harry's back. He's...fuck, he's trembling. He's human. Harry can feel the heart pounding in that chest, and the locket jostles. Harry reaches out to steady it, his fingers brush against cool metal and -

 

He wakes.


End file.
